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When Jory entered his solar with Theon in tow, his fine embroidered doublet torn at the front and a purple bruise blossoming on his cheek, the boy had the good sense to look ashamed.
Ned knew he should not think of Theon as such—as a boy. His ward was nineteen, older than all his children, a man grown by all rights. When Ned was but one year older, he was commanding a rebellion alongside Robert, carving his way down south against the Targaryen army. Meanwhile, all Theon did was laugh, play at archery, and escape for Wintertown, thinking himself unseen by the guards and by his lord.
It was hard to blame him for it, however. Not much a man could do, in Theon’s position. Waiting for his father to die, so his life could finally start.
“My Lord,” Theon said, standing a few steps before the table where Ned sat, his head bowed down in respect, which, Ned knew, was very far from how he was behaving moments before, in the courtyard. Contrary to all Ned has heard of him, from the scullery maids and the men-at-arms and his children, Theon had always been nothing short of distant and respectful in the rare occasions they exchanged more than a few short words.
The reason was, most likely, fear. Ned did not think much about it; there would be no point in it, not when there wasn’t anything he could do about the source of said fear, the ever-present possibility of Theon’s execution. “Theon. Sit down.”
Theon did so in almost complete silence, barely scratching the floor with the chair. He was obviously aware of the reason for this summon—the whole castle had been made aware, with all the noise they had made, Theon and Jon shouting at each other between punches, Robb caught in the middle, trying to pull them apart.
Ned reclined back on his chair, refraining the urge to sigh. These boys were too old to give him headaches still. “I should not need to say the behavior both you and Jon presented is completely unacceptable and will not be tolerated in this household.”
“I understand, my lord,” Theon said, his eyes fixed at some point on the table. “It will not happen again.”
“I find that hard to believe. It keeps happening, no matter the punishments. One would think the both of you are a lost cause. Short of locking you two inside a room for a fortnight, everything else has been tried and failed.” Rodrik Cassel had suggested that, once. Ned did not think it would be necessary and neither effective, but at this point, he was getting out of options. “Tell me, Theon, do you want to be locked into a room with only Jon for company for a fortnight?”
“I would rather not, my lord.” It might have been Ned’s imagination, but Theon seemed to be fighting back a smile. “We would likely strangle each other.”
“This is not a laughing matter.”
“Forgive me, my lord. Snow and I, we simply… don’t do well together.”
If only that was all there was to it. They could not stand to be in the same place for long without lowering themselves to verbal attacks and, in more extreme cases, physical violence. There was something vitriolic that permeated the air whenever they stood together, something that corroded every possibility of companionship. “I cannot force you to be friends, Theon. But I do demand that the fighting and antagonizing each other be finished.”
Theon nodded, his eyes back to the table’s wooden patterns. Ned did not need to be smart to know this would not work—after all, how many times had both Theon and Jon heard these same words, only to end up in a fistfight after a moon’s turn?
Ned would have to try something different. He did not like the idea, nor did he think he was the best person for it. At the same time, he was Jon’s father and Theon’s warden. It was his duty to make them, if not friends, at least civil to one another.
He scratched his throat, doing his best to appear as earnest as he felt. “What is it about Jon that bothers you so much?”
“My Lord?” Theon asked, his bright wide eyes not hiding his surprise.
“There must be something. He doesn’t have the same sort of animosity with anyone else; and neither does you, I imagine. There has to be a specific reason that brings you two to this point. I wish to know it from you.”
Both from you and from him, though he didn’t need tell Theon that, not right away.
By the way he pursed his lips and fidgeted with his fingers, Theon wanted to be anywhere but in that solar with Ned. It was no wonder—for a brief moment, Ned was glad that Jon Arryn had no sons with whom Robert and him might’ve clashed. It was a difficult thing he asked, for Theon to say whatever it was that he hated the most about his warden’s son. “He thinks too highly of himself. For a… baseborn son, that is. Forgive me, my lord, but there is no way around it. He always wants to be the best at everything, from the maester’s lessons to swordfighting. It is as if he’s constantly trying to prove he is better than us. From Robb, not so much. But from me. As if he wants to say that he is a bastard, but at least he is not ironborn.”
Ah, Jon. Ned wanted to find his son and give him a hug, tell him everything, every ounce of truth, take away the dark cloud that festered in his heart. But he couldn’t—he had made a promise, on Lyanna’s deathbed, Jon in her arms for the first and last time. He’d made a promise, and he would carry it out, even if it hurt him; even if it hurt Jon.
Theon mistook his silence for anger, and was quick to apologize. “I’m sorry, my Lord. He is your son, and I should not have spoken of him in such tones.”
“I asked you for it, didn’t I?” Ned sighed. “I do understand why you might see him as such, but I believe you’re wrong, Theon. From what I know of Jon, it’s the contrary—he thinks too lowly of himself. Being a bastard bothers him more than he lets on.” And that is my fault for hiding his parentage, even though it was necessary for his survival. “He feels a strong need to prove himself not better, but as good as you or Robb. But being a bastard puts him in disadvantage from the start; that is why he tries to compensate in every way he can.”
Theon did not seem very convinced. He was mistrustful of him, Ned was aware of that. He had been aware since Theon arrived, ten years old and pretending to be unaffected by the turn his life had taken in such a short span of time. Underneath the cheerful and nonchalant facade was a boy — a man, now — who refused to open himself for anyone, save, maybe, for Robb.
“In regards to your origins, I have reason to believe Jon does not think less of you for coming from the Islands. I do think, however, that it bothers him that you, who is not a northman, is treated with more respect than him, who is my son. Again, because he is lowborn, and you are not. I would ask you to try and give him some grace. You might notice Jon acts differently when he does not assume he’s being seen as an inferior person because of his birth.”
That would not come easily to Theon, and Ned was aware of that. Taken from his home, held as a hostage, treated by everyone as a foreigner and likely-rebel—Theon’s high birth was his only shield against the world. Yes, his father was a failed rebel; yes, the ironmen were deemed savages and brutes and thieves by the majority of Westeros; yes, he did not have control over his own fate; but still, he was the son of a lord, the heir to the Iron Islands. It was the only thing he could pride himself in.
For a brief moment, while Theon held his gaze, he looked as if he would not cooperate. Then he sighed, and the fight went out of him with the air, leaving him slightly slumped on the chair. “Fine, I’ll give him some grace, as my Lord asks. But I don’t think we can ever be close. Snow is much too sullen to be any fun.”
“I’ll be content as long as you two stop punching each other in the courtyard,” he stated, to which Theon could not suppress a smirk from gracing his face.
“It will not happen again, my Lord.”
“I hope not. Now, you’re free to go. Pay a visit to maester Luwin before going back to your duties. And tell Jory to come in after you leave.”
“My Lord,” Theon replied, bowing his head before walking out. Ned could hear him laughing with Jory, and then clasping the guard on his back before his steps dwindled in the hallway.
Jory stood in front of him, waiting for his orders. The hardest part was done, Ned thought. Now, he could only hope this last, desperate plan would be fruitful. But there was one thing yet to be done, if it all were to work as he intended.
“Jory, find Jon and bring him to me, at once.”
Jon, Ned assumed, had been to the maester’s chambers while he dealt with Theon. Like the ironman, his clothes were torn and dirty, the dark brown jerkin caked with mud and droplets of blood. His right eye was already slightly swollen, but with a thin sheen of the glistening unguent the maester had dabbed the skin around with.
“My Lord,” he called, his eyes downcasting, fleeing his father’s gaze. “You must be aware of what happened earlier between me and Theon. I am deeply ashamed of my behavior. I should not have allowed him to goad me into—”
Ned fought back a smile and schooled his face into a mask of sobriety; albeit not hard enough to scare his son. Lyanna had the same habit of barreling through her words, as if it bothered her to speak, as if she rather be acting, fighting, living.
“Sit down, Jon.”
He looked ready to disagree, but after a moment Jon did as he was told, and sat down on the same chair Theon had been, not long ago.
“It’s good to know you regret your earlier manners; but I didn’t summon you here to chastise or punish you. I simply want to make sure that scenes like the one you and Theon caused in the courtyard will not repeat themselves.”
“It won’t, my Lord. I swear.”
“It is good that you are willing to make a commitment.” No matter the fact you and Theon both did, dozens of times before, and yet here we are. “I believe, however, that it might not be enough. Have you tried to pinpoint what exactly about Theon makes it so you two can’t find agreement?”
Jon did not waste more than a second thinking. It was as if he was just waiting to be asked. “Everything. Greyjoy is awful and caustic and arrogant. I don’t know how Robb stands him.”
“There must be something specific.”
Jon looked at him with a puzzled expression, but did not complain. Instead, he pursed his lips before speaking, as if the mere fact of talking about Theon left a sour taste on his mouth. “He never takes anything seriously. Always smiling, always japing. It’s like nothing he does here is important, nothing is worth his commitment. And the worst is that he is dragging Robb down with him.”
“You might not remember, but Theon used to be much more somber when he first arrived. Or maybe closed-off would be a better description. What is certain is that he wasn’t anything like he is now.”
“Wasn’t he?”
Jon was barely past five when the Greyjoy Rebellion ended. He’d been too young to understand what was happening, the fact that his father had left for a real war, where he could be killed by a single, precise arrow.
When Ned arrived after months away from home, with a black-haired boy riding —with considerable effort — a pony behind him, Jon hadn’t thought much of it; hadn’t thought much of anything, most likely, beside the fact his father was back home.
Theon, on the other side, had been old enough that the sight of his homeland burning would haunt his dreams for the rest of his days. It was no wonder he’d never warmed up to the Starks. It was a wonder he’d managed to bond with Robb.
“He was… afraid. And I don’t believe he is any less afraid now; he has simply become more skilled at hiding it.” Better to be anything else than a small boy, missing home, scared of losing his own head. “Theon is a ward in name, but you are aware that there is more to it. He was brought to Winterfell as a guarantee against another Greyjoy Rebellion. If — and I don’t think it will ever come to it — his father rebels, Theon will be killed in retaliation. That is his lot in life, and it is not easy to deal with. Do you understand?”
At these words, Jon looked down at his hands. Ned knew his son well enough to understand Jon felt somewhat ashamed by how he’d been reacting to Theon’s provocations, but he wasn’t yet entirely convinced by his father’s speech, as his slightly raised eyebrows revealed.
“I— Yes, father; I understand. But how does that have any relation to the way he acts now?”
“It’s a ruse—at least I see it that way. He is afraid, so he pretends to be nonchalant and dismissive and unbothered by everything. It’s an armor of sorts. You need to look behind it.”
Not an easy task, but Ned was sure Jon could do it. “I will do my best. Though I don’t think Theon will respond nicely.”
He could reassure Jon and tell him that Theon, too, had gone through a similar conversation, but figured that it was better if none of them knew or assumed anything. It would be harder if they knew Ned had set them up.
“I have faith in you, son. Also, I will not abide by infighting between you two any longer, so I’m counting on you to succeed,” he said, allowing his son a small, private smile. “Well, go on. You must have duties to attend to.”
“I do. And I’ll talk to Theon later. My Lord.”
Ned nodded and lowered his eyes to the pile of papers on his table, pretending to read as he hid the smile slowly crawling up his face. He had not lied. He did have faith on Jon—and on Theon too.
And now his task was done. Now, he could only hope it hadn’t been in vain, and that Theon and Jon were not as headstrong as he feared.
“It went this way!” Robb said, correctly pointing to where the deer tracks led to. They were good hunters already, both his boys, though still young enough to learn a few tricks. “These marks are a bit on the smaller side… A female, I think.”
Ned could have mussed up his hair and congratulated him, if there weren’t so many people around. As it was, he had to behave as a lord, and not as a father; just like his own father had been, most of the time. “Correct. The tracks are new, which means it should not be too far from here. We can still catch it.”
“I’ll do it!” Robb volunteered himself, almost thrumming with excitement. It pained Ned to cut his son’s hopes down so quickly, but he hoped Robb would understand. He could catch a deer at any other hunt in the days to come.
“I would rather you came with me, son. There is something I would discuss with you.” There was nothing, in fact, but Ned would come up with something in a minute or two. “Theon. Jon. Can I trust you to bring that deer back to Winterfell?”
The boys looked at each other slowly. Jon huffed; Theon smirked. “Yes, my Lord,” the latter said, already guiding his horse towards the path the deer had taken. “If Snow doesn’t slow me down, that is.”
“You mean if you don’t spook the deer with your arrogance, Greyjoy,” Jon answered, falling beside Theon, his lips curled into the shadow of a smile.
“Just watch and learn.”
At his side, Robb watched as they disappeared into the woods, chuckling to himself. “I don’t know what you told them that day, but it did work.”
“I merely helped them look at what was hidden,” he said, nudging his horse to where the rest of the hunting party waited for them. Robb rode by his side, almost a lord himself. “And now, it is time to turn my attention to you.”